


pillow prince

by Did



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Coming In Pants, Fluff, Humiliation, Kink Meme, M/M, Masturbation, a dash of safehouse, a smattering of religious guilt, pillow humping, underage only in the sense that Martin briefly reminisces about being a horny teen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 05:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30117693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Did/pseuds/Did
Summary: Martin's old enough now to have gotten over most of the sexual hangups instilled by his upbringing. He’s an adult with his own flat - a flat where he can watch porn whenever he pleases, thank fucking god - and he wanks as often as any other guy. Maybe more often. Probably more often.Even so, there are one or two habits that stuck. And sometimes, when he's feeling worked up in a particular way - a particular weird, guilty way - like, say, a “fantasizing about his gorgeous boss who hates his guts” kind of way - well. Sometimes he still likes to do this.Still likes to crawl under the covers, lay down on his stomach, tuck a pillow between his legs, and just...pretend he's not doing what he's doing.fill for kink meme prompt: embarrassing masturbatory routine
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 9
Kudos: 163





	pillow prince

**Author's Note:**

> making my debut in a fandom with 2.5k words of pillow humping? SURE, WHY NOT
> 
> fun fact: I researched "how did you discover masturbation" stories to see if the first part of this story was actually plausible, and was surprised to discover that the scenario I envisioned isn't even a particularly weird one, as far as such stories go. the more you know!

Martin discovered masturbation late.

He’s pretty sure he did, anyway. He was never the type to be included in the kind of locker room talk where the subject would come up, even before he started skipping school more and more because mum was getting worse and the house wasn't going to clean itself. He’s almost certain that most of his peers figured it out earlier than the age of _sixteen_.

In his defense, he'd never received any particular education in that area, aside from a sharp "Don't touch that, it's dirty." from his mother, and vague yet dire warnings about the importance of abstinence from his Sunday school teacher back when mum was still well enough to drag him to church. Maybe mainstream media could have filled in the gaps, but that, too, was a no-go - as his mum got sicker and sicker, she’d monopolized the telly nearly every hour of the day, and slept on the couch more often than not. The couch in the same room that housed their beige cinderblock of a computer. 

Martin had some idea of the sorts of things a curious teen could discover online, but the thought of furtively trying to download porn through their dialup connection while his mother snored on the couch, late night infomercials droning in the background, was enough to make him want to take a vow of eternal celibacy. 

So, in short, Martin had known just enough about sex to feel anxious about it, while lacking almost all of the pertinent details. He knew.... _things_ were swelling and leaking and aching a lot more often than he’d prefer, and waking up sticky and embarrassed was becoming a permanent part of his morning routine, and he was feeling generally uncomfortable in a weird, electric way, and he'd had absolutely no clue what to do with any of this information. 

Then, one day, he'd had the bright idea to squeeze a pillow between his thighs. He remembers having a vague theory that he might be able to use pressure to relieve the swelling, like wrapping a sprained ankle. He has a vivid memory of crouching in bed in his briefs, his dick snuggled tight between his pillow and his belly, and just...staying there, forehead pressed to the mattress, breathing slowly in and out.

The first few times, it had worked, sort of. He'd have ten or fifteen minutes of vague, restless pleasure, and then he would get bored and his erection would subside, and he'd return to whatever he'd been doing before, feeling a strange combination of relief and disappointment.

Then, one time, it...didn’t work.

It started out the same way it always did - Martin face down on the mattress, a pillow wedged under his hips, trying to ignore the hot, buzzing tension brewing between his legs. But this time, instead of turning to worries about groceries and chores and grades, his mind decided to wander into daydreams about a boy from school. His mind had been doing that a lot lately. Over the past few years, boys had started to look _interesting_ , in a way he was afraid to put a name to. Thinking about Robert Miller, who was tall and tan and played rugby (and wouldn’t give Martin the time of day if he begged) was especially interesting. 

And then something unexpected had happened. Instead of pressure leaking out of him like a slowly deflating balloon, it had built and built, slowly reaching a crescendo. A weird tingling had spread out from the base of his spine, and Martin had frozen in alarm, suddenly afraid that he was about to wet himself for some horrible reason - and then, all at once, he was coming, trembling and twitching and pouring sticky warmth into his pants without so much as a single thrust. 

From then on, a new routine was born, and many more pairs of briefs were furtively rinsed in the bathroom sink before they made their way into the clothes hamper.

Martin had never been more grateful that he had sole responsibility for doing the laundry in his house. 

-

Martin's old enough now to have gotten over most of the sexual hangups instilled by his upbringing. He’s an adult with his own flat - a flat where he can watch porn whenever he pleases, thank fucking god - and he wanks as often as any other guy. Maybe more often. Probably more often. 

(God, being able to crank out a quick one before bed without worrying about his mum overhearing him has done _wonders_ for his quality of sleep.)

He also feels absolutely no shame about liking guys, whatever mum has to say about it. 

Even so, there are one or two habits that stuck. And sometimes, when he's feeling worked up in a particular way - a particular weird, guilty way - like, say, a “fantasizing about his gorgeous boss who hates his guts” kind of way - well. Sometimes he still likes to do this.

Still likes to crawl under the covers, lay down on his stomach, tuck a pillow between his legs, and just...pretend he's not doing what he's doing. 

He'll prop his phone against the headboard, put on some inoffensive youtube video to ignore while his mind wanders, and wait. Stay still while his dick twitches to life, body deliberately relaxed, letting the arousal sneak up on him like he doesn’t realize what’s happening. Like he just coincidentally decided to rest a pillow under his hips while he lounges in bed.

He stays still while his thoughts turn to silver-black hair, to hands with long elegant fingers, to a deep, scolding voice that has no business being as attractive as it is. (A disapproving frown on a handsome face, like he knows what Martin is definitely-not-doing right now, and he's not pleased about it.) 

Martin feels a flush rising in his cheeks. Eventually, when the pressure becomes too much to bear, Martin starts to move - coy, aimless shifts of his body, with long periods of stillness between them. No different from getting comfortable when he's getting ready for a nap. Nothing to see here. 

Sometimes he likes to imagine Jon walking in on him. The question of why on earth Jon would be in Martin’s flat goes unanswered - the important part is Jon standing at the foot of Martin’s bed, glaring at him over the concealing mound of blankets. Not knowing that Martin is hard and aching, his dick tucked safely away out of sight. Jon berating him while Martin lays still and terrified, knowing that the slightest twitch of his hips will reveal his shame. 

Jon telling Martin to stop lazing around and get out of bed, while Martin stammers excuses. Jon reaching out as if to rip the blankets away from him and Martin tensing, clutching them desperately, thighs reflexively tightening around the pillow, whimpering in panicked pleasure at the friction around his cock. 

Martin eventually gives up the pretense and starts to rock against the pillow, so slowly he can almost convince himself he's not doing it. Ease his hips forward, pause, ease them back. Gentle pressure around his dick, where the easy back-and-forth of his movements have pressed a divot into the stuffing of the pillow, forming a soft space that just barely hugs him as he moves.

He thinks of Jon’s critical, penetrating stare. He thinks, with a flutter of giddy dread in his belly, about an orgasm inexorably building in spite of his efforts to hold himself back, his body betraying him right before Jon's eyes. Martin struggling to keep his hips still, his face neutral, while his balls tighten, his dick jumps and pulses, a humiliating spot of wet warmth spreading in the front of his briefs just from the way Jon _looks_ at him- 

It's a long, slow process. He's so worked up now he could probably go off in seconds if he would just give up the game and hump the pillow properly -

(the lump of his body moving rhythmically under the duvet, leaving no doubt as to just what he's getting up to under there -)

\- but that's not the _point._

It's a delicious torture, like drinking a glass of water one drop at a time when he's dying of thirst. By the time he finally manages to tease himself to orgasm, it lasts forever and always feels like he comes buckets. Leaves him a panting, sweating mess, overheated under the covers.

Maybe it's kind of a weird routine. But, well. It works for him.

-

When Martin sees the pillow stuffed in the bottom of Jon’s duffel bag, sandwiched between spare clothes and what little nonperishable food they'd been able to hastily scrounge from Martin’s flat, he nearly has a goddamn heart attack on the spot.

It's an ugly old pillow - a ratty off-white thing that he would have thrown out ages ago if it wasn't the perfect weight and firmness to cradle his dick and balls when he's in the mood for a long session of not-jerking-off. In terms of “things you’d think to pack while on the run from the law after escaping an eldritch hell dimension”, it has to be near the bottom of the list. It looks gross and it takes up too much space in the bag and _there is absolutely no reason for it to be here._

Martin had kept it in the top of his closet, where he’d never have to risk a visitor seeing or interacting with it in any way. Jon would have had to go looking for it in order to pack it. _Why was Jon looking for it._

"Jon. Why did you pack this." Martin's voice comes out as a strangled squeak, and he immediately curses himself for asking a question he is absolutely certain he doesn't want to hear the answer to. In his defense, the idea of the lo- the _crush_ of your life unexpectedly handling your favorite masturbatory aid would be enough to scramble anyone's brain.

Jon pauses in the act of wiping what appears to be a centimeter-thick layer of dust off the kitchen counter, looking charmingly domestic with his hair tied back and his sleeves rolled up. Martin suppresses a wild impulse to beg him to forget it and go back to what he was doing.

"I...don't actually know." says Jon. Then, to Martin’s mounting horror, he abandons the dirty rag and comes over to investigate, because _of course he does_. He tugs the tattered pillow out of the bag and holds it up with an expression of baffled skepticism while Martin slowly dies inside. "I wasn’t really thinking. I was just grabbing things I Knew you’d want. Does it have...sentimental value?"

Jon’s tentative, trying-not-to-sound-judgemental tone of voice, combined with the ridiculousness of the situation, conspire to force a hysterical giggle out of Martin. Of all the struggles of fugitive life he’d anticipated, _feeling self conscious about the appearance of the pillow he likes to fuck sometimes_ really wasn’t one of them. He wishes wildly that he’d thought to - grab it and discreetly dispose of it somehow. Burn it. Bury it in a padlocked box in the dead of night, never to be seen again. 

Or at least replace it with a newer, nicer-looking pillow. God, that thing really should not be allowed to see the light of day.

"Um. You know what. Let's just forget about it. Here, give me that-"

He tries to tug it from Jon's hands, but Jon’s grip remains firm. Not deliberately firm, like he's trying to play tug-o-war, but more like he's frozen in place. Martin's stomach drops.

Jon’s eyes have a glassy, faraway look. A look Martin recognizes. 

"Jon. Don't you fucking dare."

Jon remains unmoving.

"Jon, you'd better not be Knowing what I think you're Knowing-" 

All at once, Jon snaps out of it - and immediately releases the pillow as though he's been burned, allowing Martin to snatch it away. Martin's face is hot enough to fry an egg.

Jon’s complexion doesn't show a blush quite as readily as Martin’s, but he makes a good effort. He’s fluttering his hands anxiously, looking everywhere except Martin’s face. "Ah. I. Um. Sorry. I wasn’t trying to- sorry.” 

"It's- it's fine! I know you didn’t mean to.” Martin knows he sounds more strained than reassuring, but he’s doing his best, okay? The process of unpacking their meager possessions was _not_ supposed to be this harrowing. 

Martin realizes he’s still clutching the pillow to his chest. He’s not sure what to do with it. The idea of going and- and _stashing it away_ somewhere for later use kind of makes him want to curl into a ball of mortification, but the idea of stuffing it into the trash, in plain view of Jon, where they’ll both have to look at it for the rest of the day every time they throw something away, is somehow worse. And making a special trip to the village dump just to dispose of it might be just a bit dramatic, as gestures go. It’s not as if he plans on never wanking again, after all. 

Jon clears his throat awkwardly, interrupting Martin’s spiralling train of thought. 

Jon’s posture has gone stiff, and when he speaks, it’s in the stilted, professorly tone he used to use before everything went to hell. It would almost be nostalgic, if the actual words coming out of his mouth weren’t _horrifying._

“It’s- you have nothing to be ashamed of, of course.” 

"Oh my god."

"It's a perfectly natural impulse-" 

Martin buries his face in his hands. "Jon. I'm going to die. Or possibly kill you. There will be a murder-suicide in this safehouse if you don’t stop talking about it.”

“Fine, fine, fine!” 

Jon flaps his hands like he’s trying to physically banish the topic of conversation and turns away, very pointedly _not_ looking at Martin as he applies another squirt of lemony all-purpose cleaner to the counter and resumes scrubbing. He’s staring down at the dirty laminate like it contains the secrets of the universe. 

Martin retreats to find a place to hide the pillow, face burning. 

-

Later on, when they’re both dusty and exhausted from the ongoing fight to make the house fit for human habitation, Martin fixes them both a cuppa. They don’t have any furniture yet, aside from the somewhat questionable mattress in the bedroom - whatever Daisy used this place for, it apparently didn’t require chairs - so they perch side by side on the kitchen counter while they sip. The silence is comfortable. Jon smells distractingly of sweat and lemon. 

Then Jon says, out of the blue, “I, uh, wouldn’t mind doing that, if you wanted.”

"Hm?" Martin prompts, waiting patiently for Jon’s mouth to catch up with his brain. By this point, he's pretty familiar with Jon's habit of conducting entire conversations inside his head, then blurting out the tail ends of them as though Martin is supposed to know what he’s talking about. It’s kind of endearing. 

Jon fidgets. Looks away. “You know. Watching.”

Martin chokes on his tea.


End file.
